Rough Edge (Tannen Boys 2)

“Alexa, turn down the music.” The deafening music quiets, leaving only the ringing in my ears. “What did you say?”

The urge to swallow against the wrench rides me hard, but I don’t dare, not willing to admit to her or myself that I’m at her mercy. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Wanted to see if someone could look at my truck.”

The wrench drops to her side. “Then you knock on the damn door like a normal fucking human being. You don’t touch me, or anyone, without permission or without their even knowing you’re fucking here.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who curses as much as I do. And I curse a fucking lot, which is saying something considering I don’t speak much. I think I just fell in love a little bit with this wisp of a woman. Not seriously, of course, but that big mouth is kinda fun in a surprising way. A very small percentage of folks stand up to Brody Tannen, and an even smaller percentage of women ever gives me sass. Insults, yes, but smartass back-talk? This might be a first.

“Hell of a way of getting customers—blasting metal, attacking people, and cussing them out when they’re just trying to hire you to do your damn job,” I deadpan, only half joking.

She’s shit for customer service. I’m shit at being a customer. Match made in heaven, we are.

“Waltzing in here like you own the place, putting hands on people, and somehow thinking you’re in the right.” She ticks off my shortcomings on her greasy fingers with the wrench and enough attitude that she should be ten feet tall and bulletproof. “Fuck off. We’re closed.” Somehow, the movement of dismissal she makes with the wrench feels like she just flipped me off. Makes no sense, but it’s the truth, and there’s talent in that, I suppose.

Lil Bit—that’s what I’ve decided to call this pretty stick of dynamite because one, I think it’d piss her off and that sounds like twisted fun, and two, she seems full of sparks and danger—turns her back on me, spinning in place and stepping back onto her footstool, which puts her roughly at the same height as me.

I’m stuck here with Bessie misbehaving the way she is and a woman who damned near took my head off with a Craftsman tool. Luckily, just my actual head, not my cock because it’s feeling some quick stirrings of ideas it wants to accomplish before I start pushing up daisies.

“So can someone take a look at my truck or not?”

“Nope. Shit outta luck, Cowboy.” The words echo in the engine compartment of the truck, but I can hear her victory in shutting me down.

“How’d you know I’m a cowboy?” I curl the brim of my hat out of habit, not admitting that I’m double-checking myself that I don’t have my cowboy hat on, because it’d be just my luck to challenge her when I’m wearing something that makes it real obvious what I do for a living.

With echoing words again, she says, “Dirty boots, dirty jeans, dirty shirt, dirty hands, and you smell like cow shit.”

My lips quirk of their own volition. I barely notice that last one anymore. “Seems like you checked me out pretty good while you were sizing me up as a threat. No worries. I was checking you out too.”

My flirting is rusty, like a tractor left to rot in a field for a few years’ worth of rain and snow, and comes out more threatening than complimentary. Lil Bit makes not a peep of noise under the hood.

Something interesting occurs to me, and the question pops out before I can stop it. “How’dya know what cow shit smells like? As opposed to horse shit, dog shit, or people shit?”

What the hell am I doing? Why am I talking about shit?

Before she answers, or maybe she’s not planning to anyway because who wants to talk about shit, a door opens and my eyes are pulled away from her ass. I figured I could try to suss out what was under those coveralls without her noticing. Hadn’t planned on someone else catching me, though.

Two guys come into the garage, also clad in navy blue coveralls, and I make the mental jump that they work here too. The first guy is tall, not like me, but compared to the short and stocky other guy, he seems to think he’s the hotshot here. The tall guy crosses his arms, trying to widen his rangy frame. Posting up to me ain’t a good move, man.

Once upon a time, that challenge in his eyes is all it would’ve taken for me to start throwing haymakers. I’ve gotten better now, more stable, more thoughtful. Not because I’m getting soft in my old age, but I don’t have the same rage boiling in me like I used to when I was constantly dealing with Dad’s shit.